


Mycroft Holmes, Formerly of Ice

by ATouchOfCommonSense



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cute Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Gen, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, POV John Watson, POV Mycroft Holmes, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Protective John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25813375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ATouchOfCommonSense/pseuds/ATouchOfCommonSense
Summary: Mycroft, despite never having cared for a child before, offers to take Rosie for a day. He discovers a few interesting things about himself in the process.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 105





	Mycroft Holmes, Formerly of Ice

Mycroft Holmes, man of many titles and job descriptions, had not once occupied the notion of voluntarily caring for a child for any length of time. He toppled foreign government structures, oversaw most of the British security departments, ordered wars to both begin and cease, and meddled in quite a few elections, although he would deny anything of the sort to the British public. 

How he came to set all of that aside for an entire day to oversee the actions of a small human child, he does not quite understand. But here he was, watching little Rosamund Watson toddle onto his priceless Persian rug, clad in corduroy trousers and a light purple shirt with a teddy bear decal on the front.

Mycroft would like to believe that this job was forced upon him but that was not the case. Yesterday afternoon, Sherlock was pacing the length of the flat, complaining about John staying home too much. He needed his conductor of light, as it were. John, who sat in his armchair bouncing Rosie on his knee, reminded the irritated detective that he would very much like to join Sherlock on more cases, if only he could find someone he trusted to take Rosie other that dear old Mrs. Hudson. He did not mind leaving Rosie with their landlady, but she constantly refused compensation and John was worried about taking advantage of the woman’s altruism. Mycroft was not strictly in the room at the time of this encounter, but he had the details of the conversation nonetheless and, acting on an impulse he has yet to understand, sent for a car.

John was immediately skeptical of the offer, never having trusted Mycroft farther than he could throw him. He accused Mycroft of attempted kidnapping, among other things. Mycroft assured him he intended to do no such thing, but it was Sherlock who eased John’s fears in the end.

“It’s not like he can corrupt her too badly. She can’t even talk yet. And besides, Mycroft understands the importance of Rosamund to us. He would put himself in harm’s way before he lets something happen to something of mine.”

Mycroft inwardly grimaced at the truth behind the statement. If Sherlock had expressed unnatural interest to a mealworm Mycroft would probably protect the prepubescent insect with intense security detail, if the situation called for it. It was a true weakness of his, and one entire nations could exploit, had they known anything of his younger brother.

In the middle of Mycroft’s musings, Rosamund let out a bitter cry. She had yet to master the art of walking more than a few steps and in the middle of her journey across the sitting room had found herself upon the rug, rubbing at crocodile tears with her tiny fists. Understanding her distress, Mycroft scooped up the toddler and walked about the room, bouncing her up and down gently and shushing her soothingly. Similar to Rosamund,’s current predicament, Mycroft had spent much of his childhood becoming closely acquainted with the feeling that he should have explored more of the world but lacked the means to do so. The eldest Holmes would do everything in his power to ensure such a feeling never overtook the precious child in his arms. It was this that prompted him to carry the slowly calming child out to his perfectly manicured back garden, just beyond the enormous glass doors to which Rosamund had been aiming for.

Mycroft did not know why Sherlock encouraged John to allow his loathed brother to care for John’s own flesh and blood, but then again, Mycroft never did quite know why Sherlock did anything. Perhaps Sherlock’s defense had something to do with the rise and fall of their detained sister, or simply he saw Mycroft’s offer as an easy way to steal John away for himself for a few hours. Either way, Mycroft had found himself with a very flustered John and a perfectly composed Sherlock standing at his doorstep the next morning with more instruction on how to care for a child than needed to sufficiently understand how to deactivate a pipe bomb.

Mycroft had researched childcare for ages 9-12 month the night before so most of the information was redundant, although Mycroft was quite unaware that John’s daughter was incapable of eating anything of substance before she was fed at least 10 cheerios each sitting, and she only would eat the strawberry ones.

“Call me. If anything happens or you need me to come pick her up or God forbid she is in any danger _at all_ -”

Mycroft could see why Sherlock was so eager to get John on a case. He was positively wound.

“You will call me. If I don’t answer, assume I’ve died and call Sherlock. Then Molly, then Mrs. Hudson. Rosie naps between ten and eleven, and again between three and four. If we aren’t back by six, start getting her ready for bed. Nappies, pajamas, and snacks are in the bag. And don’t you dare forget to feed her! Sherlock,” John said, turning to his still completely relaxed companion. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. There will be other cases and I just don’t know how I’m supposed to leave my daughter with your brother.”

Sherlock eased Rosamund out of the arms of her frazzled father and handed her to Mycroft’s waiting arms. 

“Everything will be fine, Dr. Watson. What I lack in hands on experience, I make up for in vast theoreticals. I will text you updates, and I will respond to any inquiries you may have throughout the day. I have completely cleared my schedule, and have informed Anthea of my unavailability, so I am not to be interrupted except for a matter of nuclear war level importance. Not,” Mycroft said with a slightly teasing smile. “That I would be informed of such a matter, what with my minor position in the government.”

At this comment, of which some might categorize as a joke had they known Mycroft well enough, all of John’s tension seemed to drain out of him as a weak smile graced his lips.

“Thanks, Mycroft.”

“Yes, yes, we’re all very grateful,” Sherlock interrupted, grabbing John’s sleeve and steering him away from Mycroft’s front veranda. “Time to go, cases to solve!”

John threw one last look towards Mycroft as he was dragged off, searching for something in his purposely at-ease expression. Rosamund brought a hand up to Mycroft’s face as her father and Sherlock made their way to the waiting taxi, patting him once on the cheek before sticking her entire fist in her mouth. Mycroft, arms full of a living, breathing creature, smiled at the sight, forgetting for just a moment that the world held anything more than one Rosamund Watson. John gaped as Sherlock stuffed him into the waiting taxi.

Mycroft took that moment to realise that while no terrorist, foreign power, or blackmailer had ever cracked the stoic wall of ice that encased him, Ms Watson had the power to melt him with nothing more than one pudgy hand. It was becoming increasingly apparent that taking care of Rosamund was more than an obligation to Sherlock and his blogger; it was a necessity born out of the persuasive ways of the girl. Mycroft idly wondered how many of his political opponents would crack under the circumstances to which he was facing.

The garden, as Mycroft soon discovered, was Rosamund’s favorite place to be. She had an endless supply of plants and insects to investigate, as well as a fair bit of soft ground to toddle around. Mycroft shared a private joke with himself as he noticed Rosamund tended to walk much better when she was focused on something other than walking. Like father, like daughter.

The girl had a particular interest in Juliet Roses, something Mycroft had failed to ascertain before the child had reached out with no warning whatsoever and plucked one from the bush. Seeing as though a bunch of these particular roses cost up to $200 (thank goodness he did not a pure hybrid), Mycroft spent no time picking the child up and relocating her in another, less expensive part of the garden.

Mycroft had never, and will never consider having children, but there was something he found extremely and dangerously sentimental about caring for a small child. They trust you so surely and completely to keep them from danger (“Bees are not for chasing, Rosamond”) and to know what they need when they need it (“I know you are tired, my little one. Had you settled down for a nap at three like I suggested, we would not be dealing with this issue.”). It made Mycroft want to simultaneously separate from forever and never leave the side of this little creature, who did eventually consent to a nap, after being carried for the better part of an hour around the grand house Mycroft spent so little of his waking life in. 

When he lay Rosamund down for her later-than-usual afternoon nap, the words of his well meaning father echoed from the center of his mind. 

Caring is not an advantage.

It was true. Caring, whether it be for a friend, a pet, a child, or a sibling, was certainly not an advantage. Advantages helped you retain powerful government positions and place video surveillance in their brother’s home. Advantages allowed you access to highly classified information and dangerous military arsenals. Caring did none of that. It impeded success, most of the time.

The one thing his father failed to understand, however, was that life, while better with some advantages, was not primarily composed of them. 

Mycroft cared, truly cared to the point that he would give up his life in exchange for theirs, for his brother, Rosamund, and Dr. Watson. It was a short list, but it was imperative that he have one, if for the only fact that a life made up of only advantages left one bitter, power hungry, and soulless. It was Mycroft’s belief that caring was what made people human, and though his brother and he will spend the rest of their lives pretending to be above it all, no human being could live a life devoid of care. It is an unfortunate fact that Mycroft considers his father and sister a little less than human.

As Rosamond let out a little coo in her sleep and turned her head so Mycroft could properly observe her content expression, the man formerly of ice resolved to teach this child the difference between advantage and care, and the importance of both of them. If anyone could balance caring for others and inventing a better place in the world for herself with the tools she is given, it would be the daughter of Rosamund Mary Elizabeth Watson and John Hamish Watson, raised by her father and the one and only William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

*

After not receiving a text back from Mycroft later that day, John raced to Holmes' residence, prepared for war. He checked every room, wondering if perhaps something dreadful had happened to his daughter, whom he should not have left with Mycroft, of all people. Upon opening a guest room, however, John discovered that Rosie and Sherlock’s brother had not fallen victim to a murder or kidnapping. He paused in the doorway of the ocupied room, catching his breath and surveying the scene before him. He then phoned Sherlock, stating he would be back to help solve the case within twenty minutes.

 _Crisis averted? SH_

_Nothing to avert, apparently._

_In that case, hurry back. Lestrade just walked away to take a call, I think we have another murder on our hands. SH_

Before leaving, John cast one last look at the spectical before him. In the guest bedroom, John had discovered his sleeping daughter on one of the biggest beds he had ever seen with her little hand wrapped around Mycroft’s littlest finger. Mycroft, similarly, was fast asleep sitting in an armchair that had been dragged up to the bed. He was slumped over the duvet with his head resting on the edge of the pillow Rosie also occupied. Their chests rose and fell in near-perfect unison. It was the most human John had seen Mycroft, and he had been through the mazes of hell with this man. Seeing this display, John had absolutely no doubt Mycroft would protect his daughter with his life and do everything in his power to make sure harm never comes near John’s only family member for whom he feels nothing but pride and love.

Caring may not be an advantage for some, but in John Watson’s experience, mutual compassion is the greatest advantage a person can have. If you care for a person, and they care for you back, there is nothing the two of you will not do for one another, and that bond alone is stronger than all of the money and all of the blackmail in the world. 

The world already contained caring people, but John was nevertheless glad to see that it had one more caring individual to add to the mix.


End file.
